


Many a slip twixt the cup and the lip

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-24
Updated: 2007-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 05:19:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for <span><a href="http://patrickxpeter.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://patrickxpeter.livejournal.com/"><b>patrickxpeter</b></a></span>'s Historical Ficathon: Time Period # 1: Wild West, dirty, gritty, Young Guns style.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://patrickxpeter.livejournal.com/profile)[**patrickxpeter**](http://patrickxpeter.livejournal.com/) 's Historical Ficathon: Time Period # 1: Wild West, dirty, gritty, Young Guns style.

Greta looked up from polishing the mahogany counter to a deep shine when the doors swung open and a young man slipped through, gazing around at the tables and chairs. She squinted at the late-afternoon sun pouring through the frosted glass and backlighting him, noting the dust on his clothes and the massive carpetbag clenched in one hand; she gave a wide grin.

"Hey there, traveler," she called out, and the man's eyes snapped to her. He blinked rapidly and his answering smile was small and tired.

"Hello, miss."

Greta preened at this. Been a long time since anyone had referred to her as _miss_ ; last week some of the 'respectable' ladies in the town had turned their noses up at her and crossed the dirt road, muttering among themselves about _the fallen women_. Greta had sneered at them as much as she could, but sometimes things like that hurt.

"I know some places open all day, but Pete sleeps near all morning, so we ain't open yet," she said apologetically and the young man shook his head as he came closer to where she stood, passing the big pot-bellied stove. She took the opportunity to take a closer look. He was maybe just a little older than she was, and his hair wasn't as blond as she first thought, but a little redder than her own. The hat he had on was pulled low over his head, not quite shielding the feverishly bright eyes set in the rounded face.

"I...I'd just like some water. If it's not too much trouble."

Greta smiled wryly.

"We got bourbon and and we got rye, but it's gonna be a helluva problem for me to find you some water now, traveler. But," she said with mischief as he opened his mouth. "For you, I'm gonna try."

She gave him a massive wink and then went out from behind the bar and out the back door, heading for the water-pump with a bucket. She came back and poured a glassful with the large ladle; he drank eagerly.

"Got a great thirst on you," she noted as she poured him another glassful and he nodded while slurping.

"I need a place to stay," he said in a hushed voice, eyes flickering around the room. "I have some money on me...but I don't think it's going to be enough." He looked at her as she pursed her lips. "I don't want any charity, miss, I can work...cook, clean up, serve, I can learn."

It was obviously a strain to him to say all this and Greta wondered where he came from, with his proper way of talking and his low polite voice. He wasn't going to last long in such a city as Dodge, in such a saloon as this one, but Greta always had a soft heart; Pete said it would be the death of her.

"I can ask Pete," she said hesitantly. The man's eyes lit up. "I can't promise you nothing, cause it's Pete, but I can try."

"That would be real nice of you, miss," the young man said. Greta winked at him encouragingly as she left from behind the bar again and headed for the small staircase.

"You can thank me by calling me by the name my momma gave me: Greta," she said from the uppermost step. The landing ran right over over the bar itself, so that when she walked on the floorboards to get to the rooms that Pete had built over it, she could hear the bottles and hanging glasses tinkling against each other, disturbed by her steps. She reached another corridor and turned down it, ending up at Pete's door.

"Pete!" she whispered violently at the crack between the door and its frame. "Pete, get up, I got something to ask you."

"Open the damn door and come in," Pete snapped back. She gripped her skirts in one hand and pushed open the door with the other. As usual, Pete's rooms were dark, heavy curtains covering all the windows. Instead of trying to get some rest, like he always claimed he should, Pete sat at his writing desk with the lamp lit, calculating furiously.

"Pete, I got me a new friend down at the bar, says he needs a job."

"No." Pete added something on his counting machine, peered at his papers and grunted. "With you and the rest of the girls, and Joe and Charlie, I can't take on anybody else."

Greta wrung her hands, trying to look piteous, but Pete didn't even glance her way.

"He's really just a kid, Pete, and he's been a far way, from what I see. It wouldn't take--"

"I already said no." Pete finally turned to her, his expression exasperated. "Greta, I keep _telling_ you 'bout that heart you got--" He cut off abruptly, turning his face to the direction of the bar and listening carefully. When Greta opened her mouth to ask him the matter, he frowned at her and shook his head.

The piano downstairs was being played. It was a little out of tune but it still sounded good. Pete stood up and stared at Greta.

"Well, come on, then," he said to her wryly, rolling his eyes at her hopeful grin. "And don't you start with me. Don't you even start."

"But, since you ran Wilbur out for trying a thing with Jill, we still haven't found us someone to play!" Greta exclaimed at Pete's slim back as he went out his door and walked to the bannister, leaning on it and surveying the saloon, his shirt-sleeves rolled up. She stood beside him, watching as he gazed at the far end, where a small stage had been installed, the piano set beside it. The young man had set his bag beside him and was drawing a sweet melody out of the instrument. Greta was delighted.

"It sounds so pretty," she whispered and Pete nodded absently, his eyes taking in every detail and narrowing at the fine red-blond hair. The man finished his slow melancholy tune and sat looking at his surprisingly pale fingers splayed against the ivories.

"That was good," Pete said loudly and the young man spun around on the stool, staring up at them. "'Course, we don't play those sad songs here. Makes people feel low, and when they feel low, they get into a bad fighting mood...or a worse fighting mood, I can't never tell."

"Oh," was all the traveler said, hands nervous in his lap. Pete bit his lip and sighed, for Greta was poking him in the short-ribs.

"You know anything else?"

"I know a _lot_ of songs," the traveler said, obviously not trying to sound too eager. "And I can learn more anytime. If you just--"

"You show me what you got tonight," Pete interrupted and peered at him. "What's your name?"

"Patrick...Patrick St--"

Pete flapped his hand in the air dismissively.

"Your last name's worth nothing to me here. I don't need it." He looked at Patrick carefully, brown eyes assessing. "You do good, you get room and board. But we got a tough crowd. You look a little soft--"

"I'm not," Patrick said firmly, eyes going to narrow slits. "Not when it matters."

Pete gave a sharp grin.

"Oh, my friend. Around here, it matters _all the time_."

*

Most people that went into the Black Underdog in the night would see Pete standing behind the bar, laughing and sliding bottles along the smooth surface, fancy in his vest and white shirt. Few people noted the way his eyes flashed from corner to corner, landing on Greta and the other girls perched near the patrons, making sure their hands didn't stray too far. He watched every man that came in, remembering his regulars and their preferred poison; anyone new was greeted with a fixed suspicious smile.

Tonight, the piano was shining again, having been painstakingly tuned and polished by Patrick; there was an excited buzz when Patrick sat down at the keys. Pete grabbed onto Greta's arm as she flounced past on her way to the stage, handing her a bottle and a shot-glass.

"It's for him," he clarified at her puzzled look.

"But I thought he said he doesn't drink," she said and Pete laughed.

"He's in a saloon. Nothing here to do _but_ drink. Go on now, go do your thing."

She went on her way again, smiling at the men that reached for her. She managed to lean coyly away, thumping the bottle and the glass on the top of the piano, leaning to whisper in Patrick's ear. The crowd called and she raised her hands, arms bare, to motion them into silence.

"Be quiet," she said for good measure. "Me and my old friend Patrick here, we're gonna do some songs for you...no, Jim, ain't gonna be no dancing right now! Go dance with your horse." The outraged yell set the crowd laughing again. Patrick looked up at her with a rueful smile, nodded twice, and set off with a fast rhythm.

There were a few moments when Pete realized he was holding his breath, seeing only the side of Patrick's face as his cheek pressed up in a massive grin, his body rocking in time to the music. Greta had a really nice voice, everybody knew that, but Patrick seemed to know exactly how to cushion it, softening the sound at times to press her voice into the still appreciative air, then ramping up into a loud energetic level, Greta singing her heart out.

The men were having the time of their lives by this point. They were pounding on the round wooden tables and whistling heartily; at one point, Patrick joined in a chorus and it was probably the nicest thing Pete ever heard.

Greta was glowing when they were finished and the other girls went up to dance; Patrick stayed to accompany their brash skirt-tossing. Pete grabbed onto Greta's frilled short sleeve as she smiled her way past and placed a key in her hand.

"For him?" Greta grinned, sticking the key in her bosom. Pete rolled his eyes and looked out on the rough cowboy crowd, enjoying themselves more than ever. He could hardly keep up with the bar and Charlie had to be helping him out.

"Yeah," Pete said, squinting at Patrick. From this angle, his head turned to the side like that, smiling at the girls on the stage, he looked just like some ordinary kid and not like whom Pete thought he was. Shrugging it off, he grinned at Greta. "Give him. He's hired."

**

Patrick glanced up from where he was sitting on the bed, smiling a little at Pete standing at his door. Living here was not as nice as...where he came from, but he got his meals and he got a place to sleep, so all in all, it wasn't so bad.

He hoped he wouldn't have to leave soon. He really liked Greta and the rest of the girls; Joe and Charlie were amusing; Andy came out sometimes to help with the horses and the men, sometimes giving the same medicine to both. Patrick liked him too. His quiet nature, his cool amused stance on _everything_ reminded Patrick strongly of his father.

Then there was Pete, who had found every opportunity to tease and mock Patrick for the last four months. Pete was...Pete was like a dust-storm. One minute, all was clear and calm; the next, your eyes were stinging and your throat was burning and you were hoping just to stay alive. Pete's temper was slow-burning yet vicious. For such a short man, he was adept at throwing men out; yet there was only one time Patrick ever saw him pull the shotgun from under the bar-ledge. It was last night, when a bunch of drifters had ambled in, settled into a game of faro with some regulars and promptly burst into quarreling. Patrick had had to stop himself from reaching instantly for the Umberto he'd stashed under the top-cover of the piano. He had slowed down his playing though, glancing at Greta as the men threw cards at each other.

"Boys!" She'd yelled, frowning. "Can't you let a lady sing in peace?"

"Ain't no lady here," one of them had snarled back and Greta had flushed.

"Shows what you know," Pete said calmly from behind the men. One of them had been in fighting mode already, grasping onto a sturdy chair and preparing to fling it at someone. "Put my damn chair down. Worked hard to make it, you know?"

The drifter had said something that Patrick couldn't hear. He had put the chair down, but worked his way over to the bar where Pete had stood, glaring. The man's hand was twitching at his gun-belt and Patrick stopped playing immediately, standing to open the cover of the piano.

"You talk too much, barkeep. Stick with what _you_ know," the fellow had growled. Pete smiled.

"Lucky I know a lot of things," he'd replied, hefting up the shotgun almost casually. It was a lovely thing, obviously well-kept with its long gleaming barrel. There was a tense silence that was broken by the snide laughter of the drifters. They were sure of themselves, harsh travelers that had been through plain and river; maybe taking what was not theirs along the way. "Get out."

"You got _one_ shotgun," the man sneered, obviously their leader. "There's nine of us. I'd like to see you--"

"I got one shotgun _and_ two six-shooters." Pete's voice was conversational. "Joe by the door can have at three of you. I don't know about Patrick and that pretty little girl in his hand there. What say you, Patrick?"

"Five." Patrick tried to remember how he came to stand in the proper stance, but he had been trained too well by his father to ponder too long over the reactions of his body. His father's Umberto Bisley sat low in his palm, cool and ready. "I only got five loaded in here, one empty chamber with the hammer over it for safekeeping. But I don't miss."

"That's good to know." Pete's face was cheerful but his eyes were hard. "And that leaves me with one. I think that one might be _you_ , if you and your crew aren't out the door in the next minute. Joe, start counting."

Patrick had steadied himself, trying to still the adrenaline rush that had dominated him since he'd grabbed the six-shooter out of its makeshift sling and had turned to the men. It was always like this, the blood roaring through his ears as he held the gun like it was an extension of himself, just like his father had taught him. His finger curled around the trigger, ready to pull smoothly and not _yank_ on the damned thing; from here, he could see Joe aiming a little low as he counted. Joe obviously wasn't the killing type.

Patrick was, though. He kept his gaze and the barrel fixed at the torso level of the men as they backed out to the swinging doors. As soon as they had cleared out, right before Joe finished his minute, Pete had flashed him a questioning gaze and returned his shotgun to the ledge. Patrick simply nodded and stuck the Umberto back to rest, closed the cover and sat to play. Greta's voice started out high in nervousness, which smoothed out when Patrick gave her an encouraging grin and played harder.

Now, Pete was leaning on the door-frame to his small warm room and staring at him as the evening sun filtered in through the grimy windows that Greta hadn't got around to as yet.

"Last night, when you said you don't miss, you were talking the truth, weren't you." Pete had this way of asking a question without really asking, his voice flat. Patrick looked at him pensively and nodded.

"I don't. My father taught me."

"Your father," Pete repeated slowly, his eyes still fixed on Patrick. "Your father taught you."

"Yes."

"Then...you're the last Stump son."

Patrick froze, his grip tightening on the neck of the guitar that Andy had brought in one day. His mind ran through how much time he had to leave the Black Underdog, now that Pete knew...and he'd thought he'd run far enough.

"It's the hair that gave you away. I knew from the first I saw you...and they did your family wrong," Pete said softly, sticking his hands in the pockets of his faded work-denims. "I heard Sheriff Stump was a good man."

"He was," Patrick said warily.

"How many men did you get on account of your pa and your family?" Pete asked, his voice going even lower. If any other person had asked, Patrick would have refused to even entertain the question; but this was Pete. He bit his lip before answering.

"Seventeen. Nearly all of the Low River gang."

Pete nodded, as if Patrick had told him his middle name.

"You didn't get the Bossman, though. That's your mistake." Pete shifted his weight and scratched at the nape of his neck. "He might come gunning for you soon."

"And so you want me to leave," Patrick added dully. Pete blinked at him in surprise.

"You got a piano to play. Why would I want you to go? The money I've made since you've been here....I'd be an idiot to send you away." He flashed one of his wide sly grins. "Besides. I actually like having you around."

Patrick felt a low thrill of pleasure at this, curling in his chest and he squelched it down firmly. That wouldn't do at all.

"Rest up, kid," Pete said airily, walking back to his room. "Got to give them a show tonight."

"Don't I always?" Patrick murmured, thinking Pete was too far to hear. The harsh laughter that came back told him that Pete cleaned his ears a lot more than people thought.


	2. Chapter 2

It was Andy who spotted the Pinkerton man late one summer night, near the fourth month or so of Patrick's content life at the Black Underdog. Up until that point, Patrick lived a sort of comfortable existence: he would sleep until about a hair past twelve, waking up to listen to Pete's discontent rustlings down the hall. He would hear the girls in their rooms, muttering at each other about mysterious lady-happenings that Patrick never ventured to understand. The girls were real nice, but they were _girls_ , first and foremost; they made him more nervous than as if someone had taken away his gun to hide it.

To be sure, he was almost as flustered around them as he was around Pete, but at least Greta and Jill and the others were sweethearts and didn't stare at him until he felt like running out back and stretching out under the pump so he could cool the burn of his skin. Pete would grin through Patrick's internal cussing of his fair skin, blaming it on the warmth of the rooms, what with all the bodies stuffed in there to drink up and watch him accompany Greta.

After Patrick arose in the afternoon, before eating something Charlie had banged up, he would take the Umberto out of the sling and inspect it carefully. His father had loved this gun because it was so subtly different from other wheel-guns. The grip was designed to fit lower in the palm, so that he could cock it easier. 'Course, Patrick hadn't been taught on this gun. He'd been trained on a few others before his father had been satisfied to let him have at the Umberto Bisley...and it had been his favourite since.

After he'd made sure that the Umberto was in proper running order, he'd go down and help out around the place. Usually something needed to be nailed down; Pete had a crazy little corral out back that Joe would spend time in, knotting his lariat with quick efficient moves...maybe to try lassoing Patrick.

Pete found the action of attempting to rope Patrick darkly amusing. Patrick thought he might shoot one or the other of them pretty soon.

When he'd finally finish with outside, always with his hat on, he'd saunter back into the coolness of the bar, to start some rehearsals with the girls. Pete had thought that rehearsals were a laughable waste of time and had told Patrick this very snidely. Patrick had thought that it would have made into a fine argument between the both of them, feeling his temper build up at the time; he had squashed it down, not knowing what he could do when he let his emotions take him over. He'd managed to convince Pete that practice made perfect, after all; the better they were, the more inclined people were to return and stay.

When a body explained things in terms of _profits_ to Pete, they always got their way.

Tonight was a fair night, too. The mood was running sweet like the bourbon and there had been only four fights so far, one so close to him that when a man had landed right beside his piano-stool, he had reached out one booted foot and rolled him away so that the girls wouldn't stomp on him. He had missed a couple of notes for that, but it was fine. He always wondered by what criteria Pete allowed fights: sometimes Pete would go on serving, grinning as the punches flew. At other times, through a subtle signal, both Pete and Joe would head out to the floor, wade right into the fray and drag the men out.

When Andy strolled past Patrick casually and murmured, "They've got eyes here that shouldn't see," Patrick had stiffened on his seat and did an admirable job of not faltering, even though Greta shot him a look of concern. He grinned at her reassuringly and played as hard as he could. When they had a little break, Patrick left the piano for the first time since he had been here and went to the bar.

Pete raised one eyebrow at Patrick shouldering his way between two rough-hewn men, but said nothing as he slid a bottle over. Patrick took a long swig and looked around, spotting the Pinkerton man almost immediately. He was a small, neat fellow nearly in the back, a pair of wire-framed glasses set on his unassuming face. Patrick turned back to the bar, not surprised to see Pete standing right in front of him.

"I see you got a man on your trail," Pete pointed out and Patrick shot him a look that might have been withering had it not been full of a deep fear. "Think he's here to take you in?"

"I wouldn't know," Patrick said, and considered another bracing mouthful of the sharp rye. He decided against it. "Would you turn me over?"

Pete's stare was formidable; Patrick actually squirmed under it.

"No," he finally replied. His voice was gentle in a way that Patrick never heard before, almost inaudible; usually Pete was yelling hoarsely at everyone. "I wouldn't do that to you. Nor to me."

His gaze was fixed on Patrick's, who couldn't think about anything other than how the colour of Pete’s eyes was very nearly the same as the bourbon bottles he served. Then Pete's gaze shifted to a point behind Patrick, breaking whatever hold he had on inflicted and his lips tightened.

"Watch out now," he murmured, right before the Pinkerton man settled himself beside Patrick.

Pete smiled expansively; Patrick noticed that his eyes were hard.

"What'll you have?" he asked and the Pinkerton man gave Patrick a sidelong look before ordering whiskey. Pete served him with equanimity and did something unheard of: he stayed in the same spot, right in front of Patrick and his unwanted companion. Out of the corner of his eye, Patrick could see Charlie throw them a hurried glance before continuing to serve. Pete folded his arms over his chest and regarded them both.

"Nice playing," the Pinkerton man said in an off-hand manner. Patrick nodded at his own bottle. "Where'd you learn to tickle those ivories?"

"All over the place," Patrick said, gripping the bottle tightly. The Pinkerton man nodded.

"Funny. You play like someone I've been looking for. Son of a sheriff from a town far from here." The Pinkerton man looked thoughtful. "People said he killed a whole bunch of innocent people because of his pa. Corrupt man he was, too, I would say."

Patrick tried to keep his breathing slow and steady. The man was trying to goad him, no doubt about that, because Patrick _never_ shot at innocents; at least, as long as they kept out of his line of fire. He flicked his eyes up from their fixed gaze on the bottle and latched on almost desperately to Pete's face, feeling himself relax as Pete's mouth quirked up in a slight smile.

"I heard 'bout that," Pete put in, his tone light, not moving his eyes from Patrick's. "Heard tell that those _innocents_ were a gang of thieving, raping bastards that tried to run their way through the town...and when they tried to rid themselves of one hurdle, they got saddled with another. Shot them near to bits, so I hear." He finally looked at the man, smiling perilously.

The Pinkerton man shrugged.

"I don't know the story so well," he said. "All I know is that I was hired for a search. And I think my search is over."

Pete gave his skewering grin to the man and leaned forward a bit.

"A few other things might be over if you don't get the hell out. I'll tell you what, too: I don't like conversing too much, unless I'm telling you with buckshot."

"You threaten easily," the Pinkerton man bristled and Pete actually laughed, tilting his head back. Patrick watched the tanned line of his throat with bemusement.

"I shoot easier. Why are you still here?"

They both watched the Pinkerton man thump his bottle down hurriedly and throw few coins on the bar-surface. Patrick released the breath he didn't realise he had been holding as the man exited.

"What now?" he asked, suddenly feeling bone-tired. "You know Bossman Kane is probably only a few days away. Three, tops. So maybe if I leave now--"

"You have a piano to play," Pete said abruptly, pulling the bottle out of Patrick's hand. He looked a little exasperated. "You _live_ here. Why would you leave?"

"I don't want to put you all in any danger. It might be better that way." Patrick looked down at his fingers, lacing them together, pale against the deep-brown of the bar-surface. He could barely hear Pete's sigh over the excited babbling of the crowd.

"Go play," he said, before Patrick could formulate any other argument. "The crowd's getting restless. And this argument is over."

"I might just run away in the night," Patrick threatened, but there was no heat behind it. Pete wanted him to stay; that was enough. Pete rolled his eyes and slid another bottle down the bar to a waiting patron.

"I'll just make Joe rope you to the piano," he said archly and Patrick actually found himself laughing as he went back to the piano.

*

Patrick watched Andy unfurl his whip and give it a testing snap, wrist turning with rattlesnake ease. The girls had been sent away, Greta cursing at Pete as he stuffed her in the coach with the others. She yelled at them through the small window, reaching for Patrick's waving hand before he could step back and grasping onto it.

"Promise me we'll find you when we come back," she'd demanded, holding on so that Patrick had to jog a little beside the moving carriage. She gave it a painful squeeze. "I've always wanted me a brother like you, so you better be here when I come back. Pete, I'll kill you if you die!"

"Get gone!" Pete had hollered over Patrick's awkward promises. "Drive them out of here, Charlie."

Now Patrick wished the girls had stayed, if only to allay the deep dark sensation in the pit of his stomach. They were seated complacently in front of the bar, on the narrow raised patio, Pete sitting with his shotgun perched in his lap.

"A whip isn't much against a bullet," Joe observed and Andy snapped his hat off, neat as a pin. "Hey!"

"It's good enough when the gun isn't in your hand anymore," Andy smirked and Patrick felt the heavy feeling shift and break a little.

"Why would you all stay here with me?" he said low to Pete as Joe glared and went for his hat; Pete let out a long-suffering sigh.

"Why wouldn't we?"

It was usually the waiting that was always the worst part for Patrick; he remembered sitting so still to ambush the Low River gang and his impatience, fuelled by fury, had nearly undone his whole plan. He had sworn that starlit night, as he watched the line of murderers filter into their little hideaway, that he heard his father whisper one of the first things he ever taught his youngest son: _Patience, Patrick. It can be that one thing that decides whether you live or die. You'll know the right time and when you find it, that's when you stop thinking and start acting._

Now, as Joe and Andy slunk into the shadows of a nearby storehouse and the entire place was silent, anticipating, many of the townspeople hiding behind closed shutters, unsupportive of the bar they frequented. Patrick waited.

He felt so much calmer, since this time, he wasn't waiting alone.

*

 

Pete felt like laughing out loud as Bossman Kane rode up with the bunch of hoodlums; he thought the Bossman would be a massive man, too much for any horse. Instead, he was as short as Pete and a lot fatter, his face red with the strain of riding too far and too fast. Sometimes, Pete decided, revenge was not really a worthy thing.

"Well, here we are!" Kane called with false cheer and Pete made a quick count of his twenty men, obviously low-life types willing to go gun-running for a price. Pete was the type of man who could measure up odds and come to a surprisingly quick and accurate conclusion, which was why he didn't play any card-games; people always assumed he cheated. He tried to stop himself from grinning too wide, because these were odds he could have taken a fair bet on. Apparently, Kane thought he could manage Patrick and his friends with just this amount of men.

"So we see," he answered in a level voice, but there was a thread of amusement in it that caused Patrick to shoot him a quelling glare. "And how about if you turn around and head back out? I have a business to run."

"My _business_ is with the young man, there." Kane slid off his horse and his men followed suit, slapping their horses out of the way. "I have no argument with you."

"You have business with him, you have business with me," Pete replied. "And as far as he tells it, you're all even. So why are you here?"

"We're _not_ even," Kane hissed, losing his calm even as he unbuttoned his vest to reveal a very fancy gun-belt, tooled smooth leather. "Near all of my men! Four of them-four!- were my brothers."

"My father and _my_ two brothers were worth much more than that," Patrick finally spoke up, not moving on the piano-stool he had lugged out of the bar; the chill in his voice sent a shiver down Pete's spine. "I'm _glad_ you brought more men for me to balance it out. Although I don't shoot anybody in the back, the way you did my kin."

"If I have my way today--" Kane started and then pulled without warning. _Sonafabitch_ , Pete thought, tumbling out of his perch and onto his back, aiming from his awkward position. Beside him, he could see Patrick rising casually; and the Umberto was roaring.

Patrick really didn't miss. Also, Pete noted, he must have been taught tactical manoeuvres by his father, because he aimed for Kane first. Patrick was holding the Umberto with his _left_ hand, something that delighted Pete even as he rolled and dived away from the line of fire. Patrick simply weaved and stepped, quickly cocking back the hammer with his right hand for every shot.

If Pete wasn't in the middle of dispatching men, he would have stopped to gawk at Patrick.

Patrick's first slug found its way into Kane's large soft belly and the man doubled over, his pearl-handled gun slipping in his grasp. Patrick then proceeded to ignore the dying man completely, taking out the eye of the man to his left and hesitating only for a split-second before shattering the kneecap of a too-young man on Kane's left-hand side. He bent and grabbed Pete by the ankle, dragging him backwards into the saloon as Pete still fired the scatter-shot from his rifle. Before they went in, they heard gunfire coming from _behind_ the group of hoodlums; Patrick may have had qualms about shooting men in the back but Andy, even for a medicinal type of person, had no such misgivings. Joe probably wasn't aiming to kill, but he was _aiming_ and he was _firing_ and that was all Patrick asked for.

"Get _down_ ," he said to Pete, kneeling and peering out of one tall window to snap out the four remaining shots in the wheel of the Umberto. He retreated to reload, slumping with his back to the thick wooden walls and Pete took his up his own aim at the window left open for this very purpose, laughing like a hyena.

"I declare, I've never had so much fun in a long time," he chortled; Patrick rolled his eyes and leaned back out beside him; Patrick didn't really have good vision, but it never seemed to matter with him when he was firing; his father had always claimed that Patrick seemed to have a sixth sense as to where his targets where standing.

Pete grunted and lurched backwards, catching a ricochet in his shoulder. Patrick followed the now-scattering line of men caught in the cross-fire with his eyes, emptying the Umberto once gain, not wasting a shot.

 _Patience_ , his father whispered in the back of his mind as his left-trigger finger curled over and over, the palm of his right hand burning from rocking back the hammer so fast. _Don't let the gun rule you. Control it...don't forget to breathe. Remember each breath might be your last._

A few were scampering away, dodging past Andy and Joe's spot. Andy decided to have a little fun while he was at it and his whip whistled out and snapped right-quick around a man's dirty neck; when another raised his gun in their direction, the whip unfurled so smoothly and snatched the gun away like the hand of a ghost. Patrick could hear Joe's high laughter from where he sat, thumbing more bullets into his gun.

"You alright?" he yelled at Pete, who had his hand clamped over his shoulder, blood dribbling crimson between his tanned fingers. Pete grimaced, lying on the ground, but he nodded.

"I'll live."

Patrick gave him a quick look and then listened carefully as a hush fell. The silence was almost too loud after this thunder of the guns and then he heard Joe whooping in glee. He was probably out there lassoing the survivors together. The Umberto was hot in his hands and for the first time since his father had died, Patrick felt he could put it to one side and not have to look at it again.

"Goddamn!" Pete yelled, struggling to sit up. "Oh, that's what I'm talking about. Help me up...stop looking at me like you're gonna cry. You only shot twelve men, Patrick...you're losing your touch."

"Oh, shut up," Patrick said, putting aside his gun so he could help Pete. In the heat of the moment, or because he was feeling glad that Pete was still around to gripe at him, he made some sort of mistake and kissed Pete right on the mouth. Pete didn't look too shocked; as a matter of fact, he looked sort of pleased.

"What the hell are you doing?" he said with a gleam in his eye. "I'm not Greta, or anything. And you're going to have to stay here and work off all them bullet-holes in my walls. For a very, very long time."

"I'm not too sure if it matters if you're Greta or not," Patrick muttered, pressing in the wound with the flat of his hand. Pete's hand rested on his own.

"Between you and me, it doesn't matter," Pete murmured. "Although, between me, you and that gun, we can make it not matter to anybody else."

"This from the man who talks like a tornado and aims like a fish," Patrick said and tried to laugh as Pete's rough mouth pressed his again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fin
> 
>   
>  **A/N:** Information on six-shooters taken from an article in[Popular Mechanics](http://www.popularmechanics.com/outdoors/sports/1277316.html?page=1); Information on the Pinkerton men found in [ this wikipedia article](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pinkerton_National_Detective_Agency) (I know, I know...); and information on lassoing found [here](http://www.inquiry.net/outdoor/spin_rope/index.htm)


End file.
